


show you what all that howl is for.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Gentle Derek, Getting Together, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2552180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been months since he first touched Derek, when he affirmed that he was real and not going anywhere, but the fact still hasn't really set in.  Truthfully, he doesn't know if it ever will.  He thinks (and hopes) that, for the rest of his life, he is going to be continually surprised (and thankful) that someone so wonderful is in his life, and all it took to find him was for his dog to run away.</p>
<p>(or the one with shameless domestic fluff, where everyone is happy and everybody owns a dog.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	show you what all that howl is for.

**Author's Note:**

> based off of the prompt "i found your dog wondering the streets so i decided to come and return him." this has been my pet project since May and it spiraled from being 5K to the monster you see before you today. I hope you lovely readers enjoy!
> 
> title from the song [Wolf Like Me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1-xRk6llh4) by TV On The Radio.

The sun is scorching overhead, hot enough to make the tarmac of the road look like it's swimming. There's no breeze stirring the leaves of the trees outside, not even a small one and Stiles is fairly convinced that if he dropped an egg onto the hood of his Jeep, it would fry almost instantaneously.

And that is exactly why he's staying inside. Sure, his house doesn't have air conditioning but it's surrounded by trees that give it a little bit of shade (and some semblance of privacy) and he has absolutely no reason to leave it. The school term ended a week ago and Stiles can count the number of times he's left the house on one hand. He doesn't need to venture out into the scorching heat in order to work on the articles he's been commissioned to write for a teaching magazine. Inside is good. Inside is sunburn free and has internet access. 

And then Scott calls. 

“I got a new dog,” he says as soon as Stiles picks up the phone, cutting off his Imperial March ringtone mid-note. 

“Dude, you already have too many dogs,” Stiles says. 

“First off, you can _never_ have too many dogs,” Scott retorts. “Second, I thought you might wanna keep this one. You should come over.” 

“Scott, it's fucking boiling outside.” 

“We've got central air.” 

“Deal,” Stiles says, shutting his laptop and hanging up. His keys are hanging beside the door and there's a small patch of sun glowing on the floor in the front hall. Just standing in it is hot and for a few moments, he considers calling Scott back and passing on the invitation. He could use work as an excuse but truthfully, the inspiration just isn't coming today and it's been too long since he's seen his best friend. 

So he grabs his keys, arms the security system and flings the front door open. The sun is almost directly overhead, beating down on the back of his neck and his arms and by the time he manages to finish locking up, he can already feel the metal of his keys heating up in his hands. He wishes that he'd thought to put the top on the Jeep last night because as soon as he sits down on the vinyl seat, he feels like he just got a third degree burn on his ass through his shorts. The steering wheel isn't much better and by the time he gets to Scott's fifteen minutes later, he's certain that welts are about to spring up on his palms. 

Summer break is excellent. Summer weather, not so much. 

The house Scott shares with Allison and their motley pack of dogs is set back slightly from the road with a fenced in yard and Stiles has barely stepped through the gate before he's assaulted by the sound of five dogs (six now, he supposes) howling in unison. It's a sound Stiles doesn't think he could ever get used to but once he steps inside, the howling thankfully dies away. The central air feels like fucking heaven and he kicks his shoes off, nudging them towards where Scott's are in a pile beside the door. 

Scott himself is in the kitchen doorway, hanging off a pull-up bar that is mounted into the door frame. The dogs are lying complacently on the linoleum around him and they peer at Stiles for a moment before they go back to watching Scott pull himself up and drop back down. 

“Be done in a second,” he huffs and Stiles just slides around him and steals a can of pop from the fridge. One of the dogs, a not-quite-pure black lab named Jack, sidles over and nuzzles at Stiles' hand until Scott drops to his feet again and then he's weaving his way between Scott's legs, tail wagging rapidly. 

“So, how hot is it out there?” Scott asks, reaching into one of the cupboards and pulling out a bag of treats. Stiles gives him the finger and chugs his drink. Scott simply grins at him and drops into a crouch, giving each dog a treat and a head scratch before he stands back up. 

“C'mon, you got to meet the new addition to the pack,” he says and even though Stiles has never been much of a dog person, Scott's smile is so damn infectious that he can't help but feel excited. Scott leads the way into the living room, which is dotted with his lacrosse trophies and Allison's archery awards, and kneels down beside a large dog carrier sitting open in the corner. 

“Hey buddy, you awake in there?” It never fails to amaze Stiles how gentle Scott is with animals; while other kids were shooting BB guns at birds, Scott was bringing them home and trying to mend their broken wings. There's a rustling from within the carrier and then a tiny ball of shaggy brown and black fur hobbles its way out, pink tongue sticking out of its mouth. Where the puppy's right back paw should be, there's only air and he can't be any older than a few months old. 

“Stiles, meet Tres,” Scott says, standing up with the dog cradled on his forearm. At the sound of his name, the dog wags his stump of a tail and licks the front of Scott's shirt. 

“You named him _three_?” Stiles replies, scratching the puppy's head with his finger and stepping away before it can nip him. 

“Yep.” He's cute, no doubt about it, but he's awfully small and Stiles suddenly has visions of him tripping over him or rolling over on him in his sleep and accidentally smothering the poor thing. “He's kind of wary around the other dogs still, but I think they're all gonna get along.” 

“Wait, what?” Stiles asks as Scott drops back down and places the puppy back in the carrier with all the gentleness of someone handling a newborn child. “I thought you said you picked up a dog for me.”

“I did,” Scott says. “I probably should have said I brought home two new dogs. Allison's already in love with Tres, I don't think we could give him to you even if you wanted him. Yours is in the laundry room.” He leads the way down the hallway, dogs trailing along behind and Stiles watches where he's stepping so that he doesn't press his foot down against a wayward paw or tail. There's a gate across the entrance to the laundry room door and Scott hops over it with ease. Stiles gets his foot caught on the edge and just barely manages to avoid pinwheeling into a pile of blankets. 

“That's your dog,” Scott says, sounding oddly proud as he hops up onto the washing machine.

The one he's referring to is lying on what appears to be the mattress from a cot, head resting on his paws. Compared to Tres and even to the rest of Scott's dogs, he's a massive husky, with a long snout and thick fur, grey and black with patches of white. His ears are perked up and Stiles slowly sinks to the floor in front of the mattress, stretching out his hand until it's resting on the dog's flank. 

“Hey buddy,” he says quietly and the dog's tail immediately starts swishing back and forth. He has big brown eyes and when Stiles scratches up towards his ear, he turns and presses his cold, wet nose against Stiles' palm. 

“I think he likes you,” Scott grins and as if to affirm the statement, the dog pins Stiles' arm to the bed and proceeds to lavishly lick his hand. 

“I think I like him too.”

&. 

He _does_ like the dog, there's no denying that. But it's not exactly like Stiles planned on getting a pet anytime soon and his list of concerns is longer than his arms. Scott, however, doesn't seem to think any of them are valid and seeing as Scott does work at a veterinarian clinic, Stiles feels like he's probably more of an authority on the matter. 

“Isn't he going to get warm?” Stiles asks from where he's sitting on the floor, leaning against the dryer, one hand still absently combing through the dog's thick fur. 

“If you keep him inside during the hottest hours and give him lots of water, he'll be okay,” Scott hollers from across the hall, where he's rummaging through his bedroom in search of a large cage. “And you've got the forest behind your place, so he won't be cooped up.” There's a loud crash that sounds an awful lot like a nightstand toppling over and then Scott pokes his head back into the room.

“Found the cage,” he says, grinning as he hops over the gate again. 

“But what about food?” Stiles asks. “And shots? That stuff's really expensive, dude.”

“He's already got his first round of shots,” Scott says, opening up the closet and pulling out a massive bag of dog food. “Gave them to him myself. When he needs the next round, just bring him over and I'll do them for free. And food isn't that bad, if you buy it in bulk.” 

Stiles can't think of any other reasons for the time being and as if on cue, the dog wriggles to the edge of the mattress and plunks its large head squarely into his lap. 

“Have I ever told you that you're a crazy awesome friend?” Stiles says, scratching aimlessly behind the dog's ear as Scott pulls a spare water bowl out of the closet and drops it on top of the bag of kibble. 

“Once or twice,” Scott says offhandedly, followed by a clink of metal against metal as he drops a leash and a collar onto the growing pile as well.

&. 

Stiles pulls the Jeep up as close to the house as he can get and piles the massive stack of supplies Scott has given him into the front passenger seat. Scott gets the cage open in a matter of seconds and makes sure that it's secure and won't slide around before he disappears back into the house. The intensity of the sun has lessened slightly and Scott has left the door open so that the dogs can roam freely around the front yard. 

The husky comes along willingly. Stiles fixes the red collar around his neck and attaches the leash to it but he doesn't have to tug even a little bit; as soon as the leash is clipped on, the dog stands up and trots along beside him, ears perked up, tongue dangling out of his mouth. He easily hops up into the cage in the back of the Jeep and curls up, tail thumping some more when Stiles scratches his head again.

“So do you know what you're gonna name him yet?” Scott asks, draping a thin blanket over the top of the cage so that the dog has shade. 

“No idea.” Various monikers, most of them pop culture references, have been breezing through his head from the instant he decided he was going to keep the dog but none of them seem right. None of them _click_.

“Well, if you really get stuck, I'm sure Allison could give you some ideas,” Scott says, scratching the husky one last time before he pulls the door of the cage shut.

“I'll keep that in mind.” 

The drive back to the house takes almost twice as long as usual, because Stiles goes ten under the speed limit the entire way, trying to avoid jostling the cage in any way possible. When he pulls into the driveway, the dog is sitting up, thumping his tail rapidly, mouth hanging open in a slobbery grin. 

“What _am_ I going to name you?” Stiles mutters under his breath, grabbing the dog's leash and leading him into the house. He immediately starts sniffing everything in sight and while he does that, Stiles lugs in the supplies that Scott has given him. By the time he finishes that, dropping the bag of kibble beside the front door because he can't be bothered to deal with it at the moment, the dog is sitting at the sliding door that opens into the backyard, staring at Stiles expectantly. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks and the dog's tail immediately starts wagging. The backyard is ringed in by trees, leading into a fairly small patch of dense forest and Stiles picks up the dog's leash and pushes open the door in one smooth motion. 

The dog takes off. It bolts across the grass and before Stiles can spur himself into action, the dog has plunged into the copse of trees, leash trailing after him like a comical ribbon. Cursing Scott under his breath, Stiles pursues him, calling out _dog_ and _buddy_ and _please stop running_. By the time he finally reaches a clearing, he's panting heavily and there's sweat beading along his hairline and he swears Scott somehow arranged this as a prank. 

Apparently, a road runs along the other side of the narrow forest because Stiles is looking at another backyard, one that isn't bordered by any fence or perimeter. There's a sprawling house at the edge of the grass and the dog is sitting at the bottom of the back steps-

Right next to one of the most gorgeous men that Stiles has ever seen. He's sitting on the steps as well, a mug and a newspaper beside him. He has thick black hair that's cut short and stubble that's on the verge of becoming a beard and when he glances up, Stiles is bowled over by the sheer intensity of his eyes. He's still too far away to determine what color they are but he feels like he's been pinned to the spot by them. 

“Is this your dog?” the man calls, scratching underneath the husky's chin. Stiles nods and forces his feet to move across the soft grass. 

“Yeah. Sorry, the leash slipped out of my hand, guess he wanted to go visiting. I just live on the other side of those trees,” he says, waving behind him. 

“He looks like he has some wolf in him.” The dog butts his head against the man's denim-clad knee and a trace of a smile cracks across his lips. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles says, stepping forward and bending over to pick up the husky's leash. “I've had him for all of five minutes. Haven't even picked out a name for him yet.” 

“What's _your_ name?” 

“Huh? Oh, Stiles.” He holds his hand out and the man takes it for only a second before he drops it again. Stiles tries not to take it personally. 

“Derek.” He gives the dog one last scratch behind the ear before he gathers his mug and paper and stands up. 

“He's a nice dog. I'll keep an eye out for him, in case he runs away again.” His lips quirk up into a strange-half smile and then he disappears through the back door of the house. Stiles stays in the same spot for a few moments before the dog nuzzles against his leg and he shakes himself out of his thoughts and starts the walk back.

He calls Scott once he gets back and Scott laughs the entire time, even while he swears up and down that he had no idea the dog would run away. After that, Stiles pecks away at one of his articles and the dog claims his ratty thrift-store armchair, only moving to slurp up some water and grab some food. When Stiles gets ready for sleep, the dog hops up onto his bed and Stiles doesn't mind enough to tell him to get down. 

Instead, he combs through the lexicon of pop culture references he has in his head and when he wakes up, he still has no idea what he's going to name the husky who has slobbered all over his sheets.

&. 

While Stiles has a productive day writing-wise, he still fails to come up with a name for the dog. He tries out a few, says them once or twice but they simply don't sound right and the dog doesn't respond to them anyways. By the time early evening rolls around, the scorching heat of the day has lessened to a more pleasant warmth so he decides to try and take the dog out for a walk through the trees. He's just lengthened the leash a little bit, to give him more room to run, when he hears footsteps coming from the direction of Derek's house and sure enough, after a few moments, the man himself appears through the trees, dressed in black running shorts and a gray t-shirt. When he comes closer, Stiles realizes that he's running barefoot and he can't help but wince. 

“Hey,” he calls out once Derek gets within earshot and the dog barks twice before he trots back over from where he'd been inspecting the base of a tree. Derek raises a hand in acknowledgment and when he comes up to them, he skids to a stop, panting quietly, bare arms shiny with sweat. 

“Does that not hurt?” Stiles asks, nodding at Derek's bare feet. The man shrugs and drops down to one knee and the dog immediately pushes his head into Derek's hand. 

“You get used to it after awhile.” He doesn't say anything else for a long time; he just scratches down the dog's neck and chest and when he's rewarded for his attention with a wet lick across the chin, he simply wipes off his face and keeps on scratching. 

“Did you think of a name yet?” he finally asks and Stiles shakes his head. 

“Not yet.” He runs his hand over the slope of the dog's head and his fingers accidentally brush against Derek's and he yanks them away, not wanting the guy to get the wrong idea. Sure, he's gorgeous and good with animals (major bonus) but there's no way he lives in that massive house all by himself. 

“It's hard,” Derek says, standing back up and brushing his hand off on his shorts. “I've got two. I just let my sister name them.” He flashes Stiles a quick closed-mouthed smile before he turns and starts back the way he came, bare feet padding against the ground. Stiles can't help but stare at his retreating back until he's completely swallowed up by the trees and by that point, the husky is insistently tugging on the hem of his shirt with his teeth, pulling him back towards his house.

&. 

When Stiles wakes up at five the next morning to let his dog out, there's a black lab sitting on his deck, staring at him through the glass doors with a bizarrely quizzical expression. His still nameless dog growls at the strange canine and the hair all down his spine rises up in a puffy mohawk. Stiles manages to slip out the door without him darting between his legs and when he checks the lab's collar, he can't help but snort. It has an ID tag shaped like a bone, which reads: 

_answers to Chica. if found, please return to Derek Hale._

“I assume you're a girl then?” he says aloud and on cue, the dog joyfully thumps her tail against the deck. 

After pulling on some loose jeans and attaching the leash to his husky's red collar, he opens the door slightly so that both dogs can sniff each other. There are a few quiet growls and some raised hackles but they seem to settle into a truce once they start walking through the woods. Derek's dog trots obediently along beside them most of the way; she takes off twice but the first time is after a moth and the second time, she comes back with a stick in her mouth. Stiles holds onto it until they step out onto the grass of Derek's lawn and then he throws it towards the house. He hasn't even reached the back steps before Derek steps outside, phone pressed to his ear. 

“I found her Laura, it's fine,” he says and hangs up. 

“Had a visitor this morning,” Stiles says, nodding to where Chica is chewing on the stick she'd found in the forest. “I think she wanted to make a new friend.” 

“I must have forgot to close the door all the way last night,” Derek sighs, walking down the steps and crouching beside Chica, running a hand down her back like he's checking for any injuries. He's wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants and his hair is all fluffy and mussed up. He buries a yawn into the sleeve of the maroon sweater he has on and when he runs a hand along his jaw, Stiles can hear the rasp it makes against his palm. 

“Did you want some coffee?” he asks. “I was just making a pot when I realized Chica was gone.” Stiles doesn't trust himself to say anything that isn't potentially embarrassing (such as _how do you look so damn good this early?_ ) so he simply nods. When Derek disappears back through the open door, Stiles leads the husky up the steps and sits down at the top. The dog lays down behind him; Chica is still at the bottom of the steps, gnawing away at her stick like a rabbit but a few seconds later, he feels something lick the side of his hand. When he looks down, there's a tubby black pug standing beside him, tail curled up onto its back, quietly snorting as it continues to lick him. 

“How do you take your coffee?” Stiles hears Derek call faintly from inside. 

“No milk, lots of sugar,” he hollers back and a few moments later, Derek comes back outside, still barefoot and in his pajamas, carefully carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. 

“I see Gomez found you,” he says, handing one of the mugs to Stiles before sitting down beside him. The pug snorts again and trots down the steps but shows no signs of taking off for the forest. 

“Gomez? As in, The Addams Family?” Stiles asks. Derek nods and yawns again. 

“Yeah. It's what my sister was watching when I called her about him. I couldn't think of anything better.” 

“Sounds like how my friend names dogs,” Stiles says, before telling Derek the story of Tres, which soon turns into the story of all of Scott's dogs, which _then_ turns into the story of Stiles' life. He tries not to monopolize the conversation but every time he stops to breathe, Derek asks him another question and he's off again. 

He manages to sneak in some questions of his own and Derek dutifully answers them in between sips of his coffee. He finds out that Derek has a massive family, that the house he lives in is the same one he grew up in. His parents moved a few hours north a few years ago, when the heat started to be too much for them and when Stiles finally gets up the nerve to ask if he lives alone, Derek shrugs and idly scratches behind Gomez's ear, who is snoring loudly in the space between them. 

“Just me and the dogs,” he says quietly. “I mean, my sister Laura is here a lot but mainly, it's just us.” Stiles suspects there's something hidden in Derek's words, information that he isn't quite privy to, but he knows enough not to push. 

Instead, he finishes the rest of his coffee and tries to shake off the feeling like he's just undergone a successful first date.

&. 

Three days later, Stiles finally manages to come up with a name that actually clicks. He's polishing off his article for the teaching magazine, trying to beat the heat in shorts and no shirt, the latest Batman flick playing in the background. Just like that, the name pops into his head and he swivels in his chair to face the husky, who is lying on an absolutely massive dog bed that Scott had dropped off the day before. 

“Does Bane sound like a good name?” he asks and the dog starts wagging his tail. Stiles knows that it's probably just because he's getting attention but it's enough of an endorsement for his tastes and just like that, his dog has finally been christened.

The first person he calls to tell is Scott, who is just as psyched about it as Stiles had expected. The second is his dad, who is still a little apprehensive about him having a dog at all, but who reluctantly concedes that it's a pretty cool name. 

The third person he tells is Derek. Once he's sent off his article to the editor, he pulls on a shirt and hooks Bane up to his leash. Stiles has no way of knowing if Derek is even home (and even if he _did_ have the man's number, he's not sure that he could muster up the gall to use it) but they've both been cooped up inside all day. Even if Derek isn't home, a walk still sounds like a great idea.

The instant they step out the back door, the husky seems to know where he's going and he practically bounces the entire way through the trees, tugging at the end of the leash like he wants Stiles to run.

Stiles manages to resist, but just barely. 

He hears barking before he steps out of the trees but it doesn't sound angry or defensive; it's more of a playful set of noises and when he steps through the trees, he discovers why. Gomez and Chica are in the backyard, running to and fro, retrieving the tennis balls that are being thrown by a woman sitting on the back steps beside Derek. She has long black hair and a wide smile and although Stiles' stomach lurches briefly, the family resemblance almost immediately becomes clear.

“Hi!” she yells, waving enthusiastically. Derek doesn't wave, but he sends Stiles a small smile that makes his cheeks heat up a degree or two. Gomez and Chica are both bouncing around his feet, eagerly sniffing at Bane and he lets him off the leash so that they can all play together. 

“You must be Stiles,” she says once he's reached the steps. “Derek's told me lots about you. I'm Laura.” 

“I didn't tell you _that_ much,” Derek mutters and Laura slaps his arm before she scoots over, leaving just enough space for Stiles to fit in between them. 

“Well, he did tell me that you haven't named your dog yet,” she says, laughing when Bane accidentally knocks Gomez over. “I'm pretty good with names if you want some ideas.” 

“Actually, I was just coming over to tell Derek that I finally gave him one,” Stiles says and when he shifts slightly, his knee knocks against Derek's. “Meet Bane, the husky.”

“As in the Batman villain?” Laura asks and Stiles nods. “That's a great name! I probably would have called him Lupe or something. Looks like he has some wolf in him.” She stands up and brushes off her pants and Gomez immediately trots up the steps, snorting the entire way. 

“I think this occasion calls for a drink. Stiles, you want a beer?”

“Sure, awesome.” Once Laura heads back inside, Stiles becomes all too aware of how close he's sitting to Derek; he can actually feel the heat rolling off the other man's body like he's a damn radiator. It's closer than two people who are simply neighbors should sit but Stiles has this niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that him and Derek aren't simply neighbors. Not anymore, at least. 

He decides to take a risk, because fuck it, what's the worst that can happen? Rather than moving away, he shifts an inch or so closer, trying to be as subtle about it as possible. It doesn't exactly work; his knee knocks against Derek's again, but Derek doesn't jump away. He doesn't say anything either but Stiles thinks he hears a hitch in his breath and he really hopes that it isn't just his imagination acting up. 

Laura comes back out with three cans of beer and after that, it's off to the races. She certainly dominates the conversation; if it weren't for her wide, easy smile and her rollicking laugh, Stiles would feel an awful lot like he was being interrogated. For his part, Derek stays pretty quiet, aside from occasionally muttering _really Laura?_ underneath his breath whenever she asks a question other people might find invasive. 

It's a little intimidating, but Stiles doesn't really mind. By the time their conversation starts to wind down, night has fallen, they've gone through a twelve-pack of beer and all the pups have long since fallen asleep. 

“I should probably head back home,” he says. His head is pleasantly fuzzy and everything seems even funnier than usual. At some point in the last few hours, he's shifted even closer to Derek and they're pressed together from shoulder to knee. Derek's hands are resting in his lap and Stiles really wants to reach out and take one, see if his fingertips are soft or calloused. 

“Do you want me to walk you home?” Stiles is so lost in staring at Derek's hands that he almost misses the words. He turns his head, ignoring Laura's loud protests for the moment, and Derek's face is so close. All he'd have to do is lean in. 

He manages to resist, but there's no stopping the goofy grin that spreads across his face. 

“Yeah, that'd be nice.” 

While the porch light on the back of Derek's house provides a little bit of illumination, it quickly disappears once they enter the trees. Despite the darkness, Derek seems to know exactly where he's going. He walks with a sure step, right beside Stiles, whose limbs feel slower to react than usual. Bane is plodding along beside him, tugging at the leash every so often like he smells something off the trail. Stiles manages to keep a grip on him but when he turns his head to tell Bane to stop, his foot catches on a root sticking out of the ground and he nearly falls flat on his face. 

The only thing that stops him is Derek's arm, catching him across the chest. 

“Watch where you're going,” he says but there's not even a hint of anger or annoyance in his voice. Stiles knows his thinking is a little skewed from the alcohol but if anything, Derek sounds _worried_. 

“Kinda hard when I can't see shit,” he mutters. “Not all of us have crazy night vision.”

“It's not _that_ dark in here,” Derek replies, his arm dropping back to his side. “Maybe you're just more drunk than you thought.” 

“I am _not_ drunk,” Stiles protests and it sounds like a lie even to his own ears. He catches a flash of white in the dark and then Derek is honest to goodness _laughing_. 

“C'mon,” he says quietly and then his hand wraps around Stiles'. Their fingers lace together and Stiles feels like he's flushing head to toe. Derek starts walking again and Stiles falls into step beside him, loosely holding Bane's leash in one hand and brushing his thumb over Derek's knuckles with the other. They manage to reach Stiles' backyard without Stiles tripping over another root or hole and thankfully, the light over the back door is still on, so he can see to navigate the yard. 

“Well, here I am,” he sighs. Letting go of Derek's hand is not number one on his to-do list but truth be told, it's fairly late and he's actually very tired. So he squeezes it tightly one more time before sliding his fingers out of the spaces between Derek's.

“Thanks for the walk home,” he starts to say but before he can get the words out, Derek's hand comes up to cradle the side of his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. But before Stiles can even lean into the touch, it's gone and Derek is taking a step backwards. 

“Night Stiles,” he says before he disappears back into the trees, the sound of his footsteps fading soon afterwards. Bane is tugging on the leash insistently, trying to pull Stiles back towards the house, so he has no time to linger. He kicks his shoes off once they're inside, checks the security system and passes out with his jeans on, Bane taking up the entire other side of his bed.

&. 

They don't really talk about it. 

Stiles goes by the next day, once the sun has gone down, and while Derek brings him coffee and they sit pressed together on the top of the steps, he doesn't bring it up and neither does Stiles. 

And that's how it goes for the rest of the summer. A few times a week, once the heat of the day has dissipated a little, he walks Bane through the woods to Derek's and while his husky runs around with Gomez and Chica, they sit and talk and sometimes have a drink or two. When the dogs have run themselves ragged, Derek walks him home. Sometimes they hold hands, sometimes they don't. Sometimes, (usually after they've had a few drinks) Derek cradles Stiles' face in his warm hands, like he's holding something breakable. But that's the extent of things and although Stiles would _love_ for something more to happen, he also has a feeling that it isn't really his call to make. 

So he waits, and patiently endures Scott's teasing every time Derek's name comes up. 

The summer goes by quicker than Stiles would like. Before he knows it, he has to stop devoting so much attention to his articles and start writing out lesson plans, trying to create a curriculum for the sixth graders he's been assigned to teach. 

The night before he has to head back to school, to get the classroom ready and fill out some necessary paperwork, things undergo a not-so-subtle shift. Stiles is searching for Bane's leash when he hears a firm knock on the back door. When he heads into the living room, he can see Derek standing on the deck, one hand in the pocket of his loose jeans, the other holding two leashes. Gomez and Chica look happy as usual and when they see Bane, they both start barking and clawing at the glass. 

“I was just about to come over,” Stiles says, opening the door so that Bane can play with his friends and stop yipping. “Want some coffee or something?” 

“Sure.” When Stiles comes back a few minutes later, Derek is sitting in one of the wobbly patio chairs he'd gotten at a yard sale a few weeks ago. The dogs are rolling around on the grass and when Stiles hands Derek his drink, Derek says _thank you_ and stretches his legs out in front of him. 

“Can't believe I have to go back tomorrow,” Stiles says. There's another chair on the other side of the deck but he's so used to sitting right beside Derek, to being able to feel the heat rolling off his body, that sitting in it doesn't even really seem like an option. Instead, he settles down on the deck beside Derek, shoulder pressed against his knee, really hoping that he doesn't end up with any splinters in unfortunate places. 

“What are you going to do with Bane while you're working?” Derek asks and Stiles shrugs. 

“I don't really know. I'm sure he'd be fine here by himself, but that just seems cruel. Scott said I could bring him over there during the day so I guess I could do that.”

“I can look after him, if you want. If it's easier,” Derek says and Stiles burns his tongue on his coffee. It's an obvious solution but it's still one he hadn't really considered. He likes Derek, he really does (he's said no to every date his friends have tried to set him up with, for that reason) but even asking the question would have felt like intruding, would have possibly upset the delicate balance they seem to have settled into. 

“Really?” Derek nods and the hand that isn't holding his cup of coffee comes to rest on Stiles' shoulder, thumb whisking back and forth over the thin fabric of his t-shirt. 

“Yeah. I do most of my work from home and at the very least, he won't be alone.” At that moment, despite the fact he's easily got thirty pounds on her, Chica manages to bowl Bane over, Gomez bouncing along beside her. 

“Okay,” Stiles says and, taking a deep breath, he sets his coffee cup on the ground and drops his hand onto Derek's, awkwardly wriggling his fingers between the older man's. He can hear Derek's customary hitch of breath and then he's squeezing back, making a content noise in the back of his throat. 

They stay like that until the moon is high in the sky and the next morning, just after Stiles has rolled out of bed cursing the sound of his alarm, he finds Derek sitting on the back step, sporting bedhead and a loose pair of sweatpants, hands clasped between his knees. He doesn't move when Stiles slides the door open, rubbing at his eyes and wondering why exactly he thought it was a great idea to work in a field where getting up early was required. 

“I've got coffee brewing,” he yawns and Derek jumps a little, like he was lost in thought. 

“Oh. I brought you some,” he says, reaching down between his feet and picking up a travel mug. He passes it up to Stiles and even though the lid is tightly closed, the rich smell of fresh-brewed coffee is leaking out. 

“Dear God, I could kiss you,” he groans and he isn't really being serious but the toothy grin Derek gives him, which reaches all the way up to his eyes, makes his stomach flip. 

They quickly fall into a routine; Derek shows up every day at six thirty to take Bane (who is usually sitting at the glass doors at six sharp, staring out into the woods) and when Stiles gets back around five, he treks back through the trees to retrieve him. 

“Dude, are you two dating yet?” Scott asks when Stiles mentions where Bane's been staying during the day. 

“Scott, we haven't even kissed,” Stiles groans. “It's complicated.” 

“Well, make it uncomplicated,” Allison yells in the background. Anything after that is lost in a cacophony of dogs barking and by the time they finally settle down, Scott can't remember what they were discussing before and Stiles doesn't remind him.

&. 

It's two weeks into the school year before Stiles' mouth finally touches Derek's face. 

It's been a long, exhausting day; two of the kids in his class had gotten into a major fight (when the hell did twelve year olds get so _violent_?) and he has to stay after school to talk to the principal and the parents and even the freaking police. By the time he trudges through the woods to Derek's house, it's after seven o'clock and he has a ton of marking to do and he's just _tired._ He knocks on the back door and as soon as it opens, Stiles can see Derek's expression shift into something that is clearly worry. 

“Stiles, are you okay?” 

“Yeah, just had a _really_ bad fucking day,” Stiles sighs, running a hand through his already mussed up hair. “Was Bane-”

He doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence before Derek wraps both his arms around him and pulls Stiles to his chest. It kind of knocks the breath out of Stiles' lungs but it's what he needs so he reciprocates, wriggling his own arms free and winding them around Derek's neck. They stay like that for a very long time, his face pressed into Derek's shoulder. It doesn't feel forced or awkward and Stiles just keeps holding on for dear life. When Derek does let go, he only takes a single step backwards, so close that their noses are nearly touching. 

“Sorry. Got a little carried away, I think,” he chuckles nervously and Stiles leans forward and presses his lips to the corner of Derek's mouth. It's a brief touch, over in the flash of a second, but when Stiles steps back, he can see that the tips of Derek's ears are flushed pink. 

“I needed it,” he reassures, trying to ignore the butterflies swarming in his stomach. “Thanks, Derek.”

“You're welcome,” Derek says quietly and his hazel eyes seem to have darkened, just slightly.

&. 

The last weekend of September, Derek has to go away to a conference in San Francisco. 

The topic comes up while they're sitting on the back porch. Stiles is still in his teaching clothes, his backpack tucked between his feet. He's been holding Derek's hand since he sat down and although the sun is starting to disappear, he really doesn't want to go back to his own place any time soon. 

“Is it an all weekend thing?” he asks, absently swinging their hands back and forth. Derek nods, using his other hand to pet Gomez, who has fallen asleep with his head in Derek's lap. 

“I'll be back late Sunday night. Usually Laura offers but she's busy all weekend. Could you-” 

“Absolutely,” Stiles blurts, his face flushing when he realizes that he interrupted. “I mean, yeah, of course Derek. It's the least I can do, what with you looking after Bane all the time.”

“I don't mind,” Derek says. “But thank you, really. I was a little worried that I'd have to look into a kennel for them.”

“Dude, as long as I'm around, nobody is going to a kennel,” Stiles says and Derek full on grins at him, squeezing his hand tightly. After a tentative moment, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Stiles' mouth and Stiles doesn't care that their relationship is a little unconventional, that they've done hardly more than hold hands for nearly three months, he is _so_ gone on the guy.

That Thursday night, he comes over to Derek's around dinner time, toting a duffel bag and Bane's leash, having used one of his sick days to get out of work the next day. When Derek meets him at the back door, he's wearing a dark pair of jeans and a black leather jacket and it's all Stiles can do to keep his mouth from dropping open. 

“Everything's all set up for Gomez and Chica,” he says, leaning down to scratch Bane's head before he steps back inside. “Their food and treats are in the closet by the front door. And you can sleep wherever you want; there's a spare bedroom upstairs and by the kitchen or there's my...”

Oh. _Oh._ Stiles can feel his face burning but thankfully, before he has to try and come up with a response that won't cause him to make a fool out of himself, Derek coughs and turns away, walking towards the front door. 

“If you need anything, I'll have my phone on,” he says, reaching for his suitcase. 

“Can I call you if I don't need anything?” Stiles asks, only barely aware that Gomez is behind him, licking the back of his foot. “Just... I don't know. To talk.” He's starting to wonder if maybe he should impose a no-talking policy around Derek, because no matter what he says, he feels ridiculous. For a moment, Derek simply stands there but then he drops his suitcase back to the ground and pulls Stiles into a crushing hug, his arms wrapped tight around Stiles' ribcage. 

It's a feeling Stiles doesn't think he'll ever get used to. 

“Of course you can,” Derek mutters into his hair, the pressure of his arms briefly increasing before he lets go and steps away again. “I'll see you Sunday night.”

&. 

For the most part, the weekend is fairly uneventful. After Derek leaves Thursday night, Stiles finds a movie on Derek's television and falls asleep on the living room couch, his socks still on, one hand resting on Bane's flank. The next day isn't any more exciting; he marks a few tests, does some research for another article he might write and makes use of Derek's ridiculously well-stocked kitchen. Even though there are dozens of appliances, from a conventional toaster to shiny things Stiles has never seen before, he sticks with spaghetti and falls asleep on the couch again. 

The next day, he takes slightly more of a risk. He thinks that he could get away with sleeping in Derek's room if he wished; heck, Derek had basically said as much before he left. But he hasn't even _seen_ Derek's room yet so before he can even ponder sleeping in his bed, he decides to cross that off his list. 

The second floor of Derek's home has a faint smell of dust to it, like it mostly goes unused. There's a bathroom at the top of the stairs and a few doors on the right side of the landing, all of which are shut up tight. There's only one door on the left side and that one is standing open so Stiles steps inside and fumbles his hand along the wall until he finds the light switch. 

It's not Derek's bedroom that he's stumbled into; rather, the room is lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves, most of which are overflowing with books. There are some on the floor as well, stacked neatly beside the two chairs that sit underneath the large window. 

“Holy crap,” he says aloud, stepping further into the room (Bane right behind him), skimming his eyes down the nearest shelf. The majority of the tomes seem to be non-fiction but there are some novels here and there, a good mixture of classics and more contemporary detective stuff. There's even a graphic novel on the bottom shelf and Stiles fishes it out before he plunks himself down into one of the cushy chairs and flips the cover open. 

He never does look in Derek's room. 

The afternoon sun has begun to turn into the evening moon when Stiles hears the phone ringing down in the kitchen. Once he's registered what the sound is, he drops the novel to the floor and bolts down the stairs, hoping desperately that he won't trip over his jeans or a dog. He makes it into the kitchen by the fourth ring and when he picks up the phone, he's panting too hard to speak for the first few seconds. 

“Stiles? Are you alright?” Derek asks and, bless his heart, even over the phone, he sounds genuinely worried. 

“Yeah,” Stiles manages to wheeze, leaning against the counter, clutching his ribs. “I just ran down the stairs. I'll be fine in a minute. How is the conference going?”

“Not horrible,” Derek replies and even with the stitch in his side, Stiles can't help but snort. “It's been interesting, for the most part. I got to catch up with some people I haven't seen in awhile.”

“Are you learning lots of new computer-ey stuff?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Stiles wants to bash his face off the shiny countertop. Thankfully, Derek just chuckles and in the background, Stiles can hear something creak, like Derek just stretched out on a bed. 

“Yes Stiles, I'm learning lots of 'computer-ey' stuff. But I'd still rather be home.” 

“Yeah, I think Gomez and Chica are feeling the same way,” Stiles says. From his position, he can see into the living room, where Derek's dogs have spent most of the weekend and although Stiles has given them lots of treats and attention, they're still pouting. 

“I miss you.” The words are so unexpected that Stiles feels his brain suddenly white-out as his chest is swallowed by a warmth he hasn't felt in years. 

“I miss you too,” he replies quietly, letting his eyes drop closed. “I really miss you, Derek.”

&. 

That Sunday feels like the slowest day of Stiles' life. 

He tries to keep himself busy, to stop himself from looking at a clock every ten minutes or so, but it doesn't work. It's a beautiful day outside, one where you can really feel fall reaching to claim the last bits of summer, but even when Stiles tries to get some grading done on the back deck, he keeps getting up or checking his phone. By the time six o'clock comes around, he hasn't heard anything more from Derek and he's completed less than a third of his grading stack. What he _has_ managed to do, with his jittering legs and the constant moving around, is tire himself out and before he can even think about making dinner to keep himself awake, he's fallen asleep on the couch with a James Bond movie playing on the television.

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is that there's a weight on his chest. Gomez is lying there, fast asleep with his tongue out, not so much snoring as he is making tiny _pfft_ noises every few seconds.

The second thing he notices is that Derek is back.

He's kneeling on the floor beside the couch, still wearing his leather jacket, his clean shaven face contrasting with the bags underneath his eyes. He smells like coffee and aftershave and Stiles can't help but tilt his head closer so that he can breathe it in. One of his hands is resting on Stiles' hip and the other has come up to his face and when Derek brushes his knuckles over the ridge of Stiles' cheekbone, a slow wave of warm happiness floods through his body. 

“Hey Derek?” he asks, aware that his voice is still thick with sleep. Derek makes a non-committal noise and flicks his eyes up. His hand continues to brush over Stiles' face and Stiles isn't sure if it's because he's still drowsy or because he's just so fucking happy and so _gone_ on Derek, but he doesn't even second-guess the next words that come to his mouth. 

“Kiss me?” Much as Stiles wants nothing more than to surge forward and thread his fingers through Derek's hair, Derek has always been the one to initiate contact. It's always been his decision and Stiles doesn't want to let one impulsive decision fuck up everything. 

Thankfully, Derek makes a quiet noise halfway between a sigh and a moan and his thumb drags down Stiles' cheek until it's pressing gently at his bottom lip. Stiles kisses the tip of it and before he can even blink, it's replaced with Derek's warm mouth. All things considered, it's a fairly tame kiss but Stiles is certain he'll be replaying it for weeks. Derek's lips yield to his so easily and although he can't help but feel a bit badly for disturbing Gomez (who hops off his chest to lie down under the coffee table), it's not bad enough to stop him from scooting over further to the edge of the couch so that he can run his palm down Derek's mostly stubble free cheek. 

When he pulls away a few inches, his nose still brushing Derek's, Derek is smiling, a honestly genuine smile and Stiles thinks it might be the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen. 

“Stiles, did you wanna stay here tonight?” he asks, voice scarcely louder than a murmur. “I know you have to work tomorrow, but-” 

“Okay,” Stiles interrupts, bumping his nose against Derek's. “I'll just get up earlier. Besides, I think I'm too tired to really walk anywhere.” 

“I would have carried you,” Derek replies and even though he's grinning, Stiles is fairly certain that Derek isn't joking. But before he can say anything, or lean in for another kiss, his stomach growls loudly and the moment collapses into a round of awkward laughing. 

“I forgot to eat earlier,” he groans, sitting up and running a hand through his bedhead. “I was gonna order pizza or something but obviously, I fell asleep first.”

“Stiles, it's fine. I've got pizza in the freezer. I'll stick one in the oven, you find something to watch, alright?” 

“Now that is _definitely_ something I can do.”

The pizza turns out just right and they eat it on the couch, the three dogs lying at their feet. Derek has changed into sweatpants and his maroon sweater and he tells Stiles about the new computer-ey stuff he learned at the conference and when the pizza is gone and the dishes are in the sink, he lies down on the couch and tugs Stiles over until he's lying on top of him, cheek pressed against his chest. 

“Are my elbows poking you or anything?” Stiles asks, trying not to wriggle too much because that's just bound to lead to disaster. Derek hums and slides his arm around Stiles' waist and when his fingers just barely brush over the skin where his shirt has ridden up, Stiles nearly falls off the couch. 

“You're good. You're perfect just where you are,” he says and Stiles is pretty sure he grins like a doofus until he falls asleep ten minutes into the movie he picked out. 

When he wakes up, the alarm on his cell phone is going off and thin rays of sunlight are coming through the half-parted curtains covering the living room window. The television is showing an infomercial for a product Stiles is certain doesn't work as advertised and there's a weight on his back that he knows is Gomez even without looking. There's a bit of a kink in his neck and he's fairly certain that he drooled profusely on Derek's sweater. 

Before he can even open his mouth to apologize, Derek shifts beneath him and presses a kiss into Stiles' hair with an accompanying murmur of _good morning_ and it's all Stiles can do to bite back the words _I love you._

&. 

The weeks pass. October begins its descent towards November and with the exception of the evenings where he has dinner with Scott or his dad (or has parent teacher conferences or dance supervising duty), Stiles spends nearly all of his evening hours with Derek. Although he almost always goes home at the end of the night, it's only to sleep. They eat together, they watch television together and on the weekends, sometimes they read together, sprawled out on the deck in sweaters, propped up against each other with a dog on each side. 

Laura comes by a few times, armed with gifts and tales of her recent exploits. One evening, a few days before Halloween, while Derek is inside whipping up something that smells absolutely amazing, she pauses in the middle of one of her stories and looks at Stiles, cradling her half-empty beer loosely in her hands. 

“So. Derek,” she says, glancing meaningfully at the open door. 

“Yeah... Derek,” Stiles agrees, only because it seems like the right response for the moment, not because he actually knows where Laura is going with it. 

“My brother's a pretty awesome guy. You know that, right?” Before Stiles can so much as nod, Laura continues. “There's been some people who've taken advantage of that in the past, some people who treated him like absolute shit and made him think he deserved it.” At this, Stiles nods; he'd had a feeling that something along those lines had occurred in Derek's past, that _something_ had happened for him to tread so cautiously. 

“Now you, Stiles. I like you. I like you more than I've ever liked anyone Derek's dated. I think you're good for him. I think you're good for each other. I _don't_ think that you're going to pull anything like the others did. But just in case, I figured I'd give you the obligatory warning that I will kick your ass six ways to Sunday if you hurt him unjustly. Alright?” 

Stiles just nods again because Laura is staring at him with large, ice-cold eyes and he has no doubt that _six ways to Sunday_ is an understatement. But then the frost breaks and she grins, patting him on the shoulder before she drains the rest of her beer. 

“Awesome. Now that's out of the way, let's eat. I'm fucking starving.” She heads inside and Stiles takes a moment to gather his bearings. It isn't the first time he's gotten the whole “hurt them and I'll kill you talk” from a sibling or friend, but he doesn't think anyone has ever delivered it in such a believable way. Truthfully, it's a little terrifying. 

Nonetheless, that mild terror isn't enough to stop him from going inside and pecking Derek on the cheek before he sits down to eat and it certainly isn't enough to stop him from walking back to his house with Derek later that night, loosely clutching Bane's leash in the hand that isn't holding Derek's. The night air is cool and there's no moon but they make it through the trees without incident. Stiles lets Bane in through the back door and when he turns around, Derek is still there, like he knows that Stiles isn't ready for him to leave yet. 

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, happy that it's too dark out for Derek to see the flush on his cheeks. 

“Stiles, you can kiss me anytime you want,” Derek says, stepping forward and tugging Stiles forward by the front of his hoodie. 

“That goes for you too. Anytime Derek, anywhere-”

“How about right now?” 

It starts off like their other kisses; nearly closed-mouthed, slow, with only a flicker of tongue here and there. But something changes; Stiles can feel it in the relaxed way Derek's body is pressed against his. It's a change that makes him think it would be okay to try something new so, inhaling through his nose, he tilts his head and opens his mouth further, giving Derek free roam. It's only a few moments before Derek's tongue presses against his own and his warm hand slides up Stiles' sweater and over the cold skin just above his jeans and this, this was definitely a good idea.

By the time Stiles realizes he needs to breathe, the doorknob is pushing into his hip and his sweater is rucked up nearly to his ribs. Derek's broad palms are pressed against his waist and he's panting against Stiles' cheek. Before he can reluctantly extract his limbs from Derek's, his still-wet lips drag down Stiles' neck, worrying the skin between his teeth, finding the spot where Stiles' pulse jumps against his skin and sucking gently. It's not hard enough to leave a mark; that he saves for the junction of Stiles' neck and his shoulder. Stiles throws his head back against the door hard enough for Bane to bark inquisitively on the other side and he hangs on for dear life, groaning while Derek's teeth scrape over his skin. 

“You're amazing,” Derek says against his skin and the words sound rusty, out of practice, but wonderful all the same. “There's so much that I want to do with you.” 

“We've got all the time in the world,” Stiles says and his voice is borderline wrecked. “I'm not going anywhere, Derek. Anything you wanna do, we can do it. Just maybe not tonight.” 

“Not tonight. But maybe tomorrow,” Derek answers and Stiles isn't sure if it's legal for one person to make him so damn happy.

&. 

When Stiles looks in the mirror the next morning, his hair is an absolute fucking disaster and he has a sizable hickie on his neck, standing out blotchy purple against his pale skin. He manages to cover it up with one of his dress shirts, done up right to the top (which leads to some interesting questions from his students, but oh well), but by the time he has dinner at Scott and Allison's later that evening, he's forgotten all about it and thinks nothing of undoing the top three buttons of his shirt. 

By the time he realizes what Allison is giggling at, it's too late for him to cover it up without Scott noticing and by the time he gets back to Derek's to pick up Bane, he feels like he just underwent the most thorough cross-examination this side of the Supreme Court.

&.

A few days later, Stiles wakes up to a empty bed. He's gotten so used to having Bane sleeping at his feet (or to lying on top of Derek on his couch) that the emptiness is more than just strange, it's downright disconcerting. As he glances over at the clock (which reads two AM), he realizes that his normally silent house isn't so quiet. He can hear Bane whining out in the living room and when he stumbles out, stubbing his toe on a door frame, he finds his dog sitting in front of the sliding door opening into the backyard. His tail is swishing on the floor and when he looks up at Stiles, his whining only increases in volume. 

“Do you need out?” he asks through a massive yawn and on cue, Bane jumps to his feet, tail hitting Stiles in the knee. After taking a cursory look out into the yard, just to make sure there's no other animals within sight, Stiles opens the door and, before he can so much as yell _Bane!_ , his husky bolts across the yard and into the trees. Stiles just groans and slides his feet into a ratty pair of sneakers beside the door. He has to be up in four hours to get ready for work and it's kind of cold outside but Bane is his responsibility, so he slams the door shut behind himself and jogs into the trees as well, ignoring the goosebumps flaring up on every exposed inch of skin. 

He's _really_ glad he decided to sleep in pants tonight. 

“Bane?” he calls, pushing his way through the trees, cursing as a branch smacks against his arm. He can't hear any sign of the dog, no snapping twigs or whining or panting breath. So he keeps pushing forward, taking urgent but careful steps and he only trips over three roots before he emerges into Derek's backyard. 

Bane is sitting at the top of Derek's steps, looking pleased as punch, no longer whining at all. When Stiles reaches the steps, he gets to his paws and moves to stand over by the door, looking from it to Stiles and back again and as much as Stiles would like to go inside, he's also positive that just going into Derek's house in the middle of the night would cross some sort of boundary. 

“C'mon Bane, we gotta go back home,” he says quietly, hooking his fingers underneath Bane's collar and gently trying to steer him back towards the stairs. Bane doesn't move a single inch; he sinks back down to his haunches and whines quietly and his dark eyes look so sad that Stiles can't help but feel like an asshole. 

“I know you wanna see your buddies, but we'll be back tomorrow.” Stiles has just barely gotten the words out of his mouth when Bane's tail starts to wag rapidly and when he looks back up, Derek is just opening the door, shirtless and scratching at his messy hair with one hand. 

“Stiles? Are you okay?” he asks, voice thick with sleep. He opens the door a little wider and just like that, Bane jerks away from Stiles' fingers and bounds inside past Derek's feet, his barking returned by both Chica and Gomez. 

“Yeah Derek, I'm fine,” he says sheepishly, not only because his dog just invaded Derek's house, but because he's never seen Derek shirtless before and he knows he's doing a horrible job at not staring at his abs and the thick, dark hair covering his chest and disappearing underneath the low-slung waistband of his pajamas. “I woke up 'cause Bane was whining and then he just ran over here. If you can lure him back out, I'll get him out of here, let you go back to sleep.” 

“Don't worry about it.” 

“Huh?” Derek rolls his eyes and grabs the hem of Stiles' thin t-shirt, pulling him inside and shutting out the cold night. 

“Stay here tonight, Stiles,” he murmurs, his palms slotted against Stiles' hips, their warmth bleeding through Stiles' shirt and raising goosebumps of a far more pleasant variety. “Stay, if you want to.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says, shivering as Derek's thumbs slip underneath his shirt and brush against his bare skin. He can't help but arch ever so slightly into the touch and based on the way Derek sighs and presses a kiss to his forehead, it's an action that doesn't go unnoticed. 

For Bane, the novelty appears to have worn off; when Stiles pokes his head into the living room, his husky is lying in a patch of moonlight, Chica and Gomez nearby. They all seem very content to be beside each other so without another word, Stiles lets Derek lead the way up the dark stairwell, hoping to God that he doesn't trip over a chew toy or a wayward shoe. But the path remains clear of obstructions all the way to the end of the hallway, where Derek's door is half open, with dim light spilling out. 

Familiar as he may be with Derek's couch (or rather, with the feeling of sleeping on top of Derek on the couch), it's the first time Stiles has ever been in Derek's room. It's pretty plain, with pale walls and a hardwood floor that creaks with every step Stiles makes. There's a window seat piled high with books and some photos hung on the walls but the main attraction is definitely the bed. It's massive, a giant compared to Stiles', covered in pillows and a dark blue blanket that looks a little ragged around the edges and it looks so cozy that Stiles barely resists just throwing himself onto it and burrowing in like a child. 

“Wow,” he says instead, running one hand over the covers and stifling a yawn against his arm. “Looks comfy.” 

“It is,” Derek replies and before Stiles can study the bed further, Derek flicks off the lamp sitting on the bedside table. A few seconds later, there's a loud creak and Derek's warm fingers brush over Stiles'. 

“Coming?” he asks and that's all the invitation Stiles needs. He scrambles onto the bed, thankful that the moon is providing enough glow for him to see by, and he only elbows Derek once before he's up against the pillows and underneath the blanket. Derek's toes are brushing against the back of his leg and his chest is solid against Stiles' back and even though the bed has more than enough room for both of them to have separate sides, Stiles doesn't even consider moving. 

“Very comfy,” he murmurs, yawning again and reaching backwards until he finds Derek's arm. “I want this bed.” 

“It's yours anytime you want it,” Derek says, his lips catching against the shell of Stiles' ear and even though his mind is reminding him very persistently that he now only has three and a half hours until he has to get up for work, a slow shiver goes coursing down his spine. 

“Anytime?” he asks, tugging on Derek's arm until it's wrapped around his waist. Stiles can feel Derek nod against the back of his neck as he pushes Stiles' shirt up, high enough for his wide, warm palm to splay over Stiles' stomach, the tip of his pinkie dipping under the waistband of his pajama pants. 

“Yeah.” His hand flexes slightly, pulling Stiles back towards him, his mouth just barely brushing against Stiles' neck. “ _I'm_ yours anytime you want.” 

“How 'bout always?” Stiles sighs, almost immediately regretting it. It's a stupid thing to say, completely sappy and hell, him and Derek have just gotten to the phase of their relationship where kissing is a thing; declarations of commitment (even if Stiles means them with everything he has) are something else entirely. For a few seconds, Derek stays completely and utterly still and if it weren't for the fact that his palm stays pressed against Stiles' stomach, Stiles would have bolted for the door. 

Finally, after some of the most excruciating seconds of Stiles' life, Derek flexes his fingers against Stiles' hip, rolling him onto his side so that they're facing each other. The light from the moon is enough to see by and whereas Stiles expected to see drawn together brows and a frown, he's met instead with parted lips and curious eyes.

“You're just saying that because you're tired,” Derek says quietly but there's a note of hesitation in his voice, like he doesn't quite believe what he's saying.

“No,” Stiles says firmly and, taking a gamble, he swings his leg over Derek's thigh and moves so that he's hovering on top of him, their foreheads pressed together. “Might be _easier_ for me to say it when I'm tired but I mean it. Every word.” He presses his mouth against the tip of Derek's nose, to his stubble and his cheekbones and when he pulls back a little, Derek is looking up at him in a way that makes him very, very exposed in the best kind of way. 

“I am a very lucky man,” he says and before Stiles can reply, Derek flips them over, presses Stiles back into the ridiculously fluffy pillows and kisses him hard, like he's trying to knock the breath right out of him. For a few seconds, it nearly works. Breathing is no longer really at the top of Stiles' list of important things to be doing; the number one spot on that list has been conceded to kissing Derek back with everything he has. He manages to get his legs out from underneath Derek, which causes their hips to slot together and Stiles breaks away from Derek's mouth with a curse. The temperature in the room seems to be rising more with each second and before Derek leans back in, Stiles props himself up onto his elbows and starts tearing at his own shirt. 

“Gotta get this thing off,” he mutters, fumbling with the hem. Derek's fingers fall on top of his and he laughs quietly in a way that makes Stiles relax a little bit, because even though his nerves are thrumming anxiously, Stiles can still tell that it's a fond laugh rather than an exasperated one. 

“Slow down, Stiles,” he says as his fingers slowly push Stiles' shirt up over his ribs. “There's no rush.” His index finger brushes over Stiles' nipple and he shudders again, curving his back and raising his arms so that Derek can pull his shirt off of him and toss it off the bed. 

“Slow, okay. Good plan,” Stiles says, the last word trailing off into a moan as Derek's mouth drags over the ridge of his collarbone. He runs his fingers through Derek's hair and the man leans into it, a groan slipping from his mouth even as his teeth gently scrape over the hollow at the base of Stiles' throat. It's a wonderful sound, one Stiles has never heard before so he makes it his goal to coax it past Derek's lips again. 

All it takes to do that is for him to slowly drag his nails down Derek's back and while his head spins at the feeling of Derek's muscles shifting underneath his hands, Derek groans against his jaw, warm breath brushing over Stiles' cheek. 

“ _Jesus_ , Stiles,” he moans, the words brushing over Stiles' pulse and the tone of them, the sheer reverence in Derek's voice, gives him a surge of courage. When his fingers reach the dip at the bottom of Derek's spine, he keeps going until his hands are sliding down between Derek's sweatpants and his boxers. He waits a few moments, to make sure that he hasn't overstepped a boundary and once he's sure he can proceed, he squeezes Derek's ass. This time, Derek growls quietly and when he swoops back in, licking his way into Stiles' mouth and nipping at his already swollen lips, his hips roll downward. Even through their multiple layers of clothes, Stiles can still feel how hard Derek is and he's in the same boat. While he takes his time dragging his tongue along the sharp edges of Derek's teeth, he experimentally bucks his own hips up and based on how he swallows a curse from Derek's mouth, his response is much appreciated. 

“Do we need to keep wearing pants?” he pants a few moments later, “or can those go the way of the dinosaurs?”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Derek says. With each word, his lips brush against Stiles' and even without looking, Stiles can tell that he's smiling. “But yeah, they can go.” As soon as he's gotten permission, Stiles pushes at the waistband of Derek's pajama pants, attempting to wiggle his own off at the same time. While he manages to get Derek's pushed down past his ass, his attempts to get his own off fail miserably and Derek rolls his eyes at him. 

“You're being impatient again,” he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Stiles' mouth before leaning back onto his knees and curling his fingers into the waistband of Stiles' pants. For a few moments, he just stays there, his thumbs brushing over Stiles' hips, lips parted, eyes roaming over his face and his chest like he's attempting to memorize him. The sheer intensity of Derek's look makes him squirm a bit; he's never felt anything like it in his entire life and it's unnerving in the best possible way. 

“Whatcha looking at?” he asks and for a few moments, Derek just continues to stare at him, like he didn't even hear the question. Finally, he clears his throat and completes his task, tugging Stiles' pants down to his feet and throwing them over the edge of the bed. 

“I just never thought you'd be here,” he says, running his large, warm hands up over Stiles' knees and his thighs and for the umpteenth time, Stiles bites his lip so that he doesn't spit out _I love you._

“Me neither,” he says instead before he tugs Derek back down.

&.

By the time they finish, the room is starting to fill with early morning light. Most of the pillows have been knocked off the bed and Stiles is covered in sweat from head to toe. Somewhere along the way, Derek had ended up with his back pressed against the headboard, Stiles in his lap and Stiles is pretty sure his chest is dotted with hickies. There might be bruises on his hips as well, based solely on how tight Derek was gripping them when he came but that's a possibility Stiles is totally okay with. In addition to the sweat drying on his skin, Stiles has a little bit of come (although whose it is, he really doesn't know) drying on his stomach. Most of it, however, is drying on his boxers, which stayed on the entire time. Derek didn't remove his either and Stiles knows that if they both don't get up and do something soon, they're going to be in a very uncomfortable, sticky situation. 

But it's just so damn _hard_ to untangle himself from Derek, especially since he hasn't quite gotten his breath back yet. Derek's arms are still wrapped around his back and their foreheads are pressed together and Stiles feels like his heart is about to jump out of his chest. 

“I have to be at school in two hours,” he groans after he's glanced over at the clock on Derek's bedside table. “But this was totally worth it.” 

“Good,” Derek says, leaning up for another kiss before his arms drop. “You should get some sleep. I'll wake you up in an hour.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says because even though he knows he's going to feel like absolute hell after only an hour of sleep, he's really too damn tired and blissed out to argue with his own mind. So he slides off Derek's lap, shoves his face into a pillow and just barely remembers to kick off his gross boxers before he passes out. 

It's only an hour later, when Derek shakes him awake and practically shoves a cup of coffee under his nose, that he realizes that he's actually _naked_ , in Derek's bed and this time, it isn't even a dream. 

“I went and grabbed some clothes from your place,” Derek says, which would explain why he's dressed again, in another pair of sweatpants and the maroon sweater that Stiles absolutely adores because it's soft and worn and has _thumbholes_ for God's sake. “They're in the bathroom. Figured you'd want a shower.”

“You guessed correctly,” Stiles says, sitting up and deeply inhaling the steam coming off of his coffee cup. He takes it from Derek's hands only to set it on the bedside table and tug Derek in by the collar of his sweater for another kiss. With each second that goes by, Stiles knows he has less time with which to make himself presentable for work, but Derek's hands are cradling his face and he already tastes like coffee and it's just so damn hard for Stiles to let go of him. 

“Thank you,” he says and when he hears Bane bark downstairs, he adds, “for everything you do for me.” 

Derek stays silent, but his smile says everything.

&. 

Since the first night he spent in Derek's bed, Stiles has been spending even less time at his own house. Even on the days where he doesn't spend the night, he's there until the late hours, usually with a stack of marking in tow. He spends a lot of time on the large sofa in the living room, his tools of the trade spread out across the low coffee table and while they usually get utilized, there have been a number of nights where he's been so distracted by Derek that he's lucky to get a single test or book report marked. Even on the nights where Derek has to work late, he's never far away; his work computer is set up in the corner of the living room so while Stiles attempts to decipher sixth grade handwriting, Derek types rapidly and occasionally curses at something Stiles doesn't bother to try and understand. 

On the day before Thanksgiving, Derek's computer is dark and the entire house smells like food. Stiles' stomach is grumbling so persistently that he can hardly focus on the stack of math tests in front of him. While he wishes that he could spend Thanksgiving itself with Derek, his time has already been booked by the annual joint McCall-Stilinski Thanksgiving dinner and much as he likes Derek, missing that occasion would probably lead to Scott never speaking to him again. 

The dogs are spread across the room; Bane is underneath the coffee table, so big that his tail sticks out, snoring loudly and probably drooling on the hardwood floor. Chica is on her dog bed in front of the television and Gomez is curled up beside Stiles, tongue sticking out of his mouth, grunting every time Stiles scratches his head. He's just added another test to the marked pile when he hears footsteps behind him and he turns so that he can see Derek coming in from the kitchen. 

“How's the food coming?” he asks, scratching Gomez's head again and this time, the dog full on snorts and although he's heard the noise dozens of times, Stiles can't help but laugh. When he looks back up, Derek is standing just behind the couch, face hard to read. He doesn't look like he heard a single word Stiles said, even though his eyes are locked on Stiles' face. 

“Derek?” He throws his pen at the table (and misses) before turning around so that he's up on his knees, facing Derek. “Earth to Derek. You still there?” 

“Yeah,” he finally replies and with that, he leans down and presses his lips against Stiles'. It starts out as something gentle, something slow and contemplative but before Derek can pull away, Stiles reaches up and seizes a fistful of Derek's shirt, tugging him closer. It works, for a moment, but it also ends up knocking him off balance and he falls back onto the couch, just barely missing Gomez, who hops off and curls up beside Bane instead. Stiles feels like an idiot but there's no judgment on Derek's face, just happiness and hungry as he is, Stiles _really_ wants to kiss him some more. 

“C'mere,” he says, adjusting himself so that his head is resting against the arm of the sofa. Derek glances back at the kitchen quickly before he nimbly climbs over the back of the couch, his legs bracketing Stiles'. Stiles has words sitting on the tip of his tongue, good-natured teasing about Derek not taking the time to walk around like a normal person but then Derek is kissing him again and this time, it's a lot more insistent. His tongue winds between Stiles' lips and his stubble scrapes against his skin and even with his mouth open and head tilted, it isn't enough. No matter how many times they do this, it's never enough; Stiles wants more, _needs_ more and he wraps his legs around Derek's thighs, pulling them closer together. When he pulls away to suck in a breath, intent on diving back in as soon as possible, Derek nudges his chin with his nose, gently tilting his head back. 

And then his mouth is on Stiles' neck, teeth dragging over his thin skin, tongue soothing the irritation afterwards and Stiles swears to God he's seeing stars. Derek stops at the bottom of his neck and when he starts to suck, worrying the skin between his teeth, Stiles is pretty sure he moans louder than he ever has. He could write _essays_ about how amazing Derek's mouth feels against his neck (and other places, of course, but it's like his lips and his teeth were just made for pressing against Stiles' throat). 

After a few breathtaking minutes, he comes back home, forehead braced against Stiles' and even though Stiles can feel how hard Derek is already, his cock pressed against the hollow of his hip, Derek doesn't dive back in. Instead, he brings one hand up to cup Stiles' face and Stiles has flashbacks to many a dark night in his own backyard. He loosely wraps his fingers around Derek's wrist, tracing his thumb over where Derek's pulse is thrumming underneath his skin. 

“I was going to wait until Christmas to ask,” Derek says, panting slightly. “And if it's too soon, I'll understand. Okay?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, heart pounding against the cage of his ribs, mind racing with possibilities that don't make him panic nearly as much as he thinks they should. “What is it?” 

“Do you want to move in with me?” Derek's eyes are closed and Stiles feels like he's going to pass out, because this is too good to be true. He knows that from a purely objective standpoint, Derek's fears about it being too soon might be completely warranted. After all, it's only been a few months since their unnamed, unlabeled relationship began. But it feels right, it's felt right for a long time. It _clicks_ in his head, like the decision to adopt Bane had clicked and he nods rapidly, feeling like he's going to jitter right out of his trembling skin. 

“Yes, Derek, fuck, absolutely,” he says, kissing the corner of Derek's mouth and his cheek and his nose. “I want that, so much.” Derek sighs and a grin blossoms across his face. His hand is still cradling Stiles' jaw and his fingers curl into the hair behind Stiles' ear. 

“Great,” he whispers, “that's great, Stiles.” And then he surges downwards again, pressing Stiles back into the couch and Stiles stops trying to think in any logical sort of fashion. Right after he loses his overshirt, Derek stands up and tugs on his wrist. Stiles barely manages to get both feet on the ground before Derek is picking him up like it's nothing at all and this is _definitely_ something he could get used to, absolutely. 

They make it as far as the guest room beside the stairs. The room still smells a little like Laura's perfume from the last time she visited and Stiles says a quick apology in his head before Derek drops him against the blankets and climbs up after him. Before he leans back in, he pulls his own shirt off, exposing miles of firm, tanned muscles that Stiles is already well on the way to memorizing with his mouth and teeth and tongue. 

“Why do you ever wear a shirt?” he asks, running his palms down Derek's chest, scratching his fingers through the thick, dark hair trailing from under Derek's navel into his jeans. 

“Could ask you the same thing,” Derek replies and although Stiles has a self-deprecating remark sitting on the tip of his tongue, Derek kisses it out of his mouth before he can say it.

Their clothes don't last long and although Stiles has seen Derek completely naked before, it's still just as amazing as it was the first time. And it feels just as amazing too; Derek's cock is dragging against his stomach and every time it touches his own, Stiles has to take a break from marking up Derek's neck and shoulders to moan or curse. He's trying very hard to resist the urge to reach down and take matters into his own hands because while he feels like an exposed nerve, jolting at every touch, it's a feeling he wants to last forever. 

“Stiles?” Derek asks, nipping at his earlobe (which makes Stiles yelp in a way he is _not_ proud of).

“Yeah?” His legs are wrapped around Derek's lower back and when Derek's hips roll down again, Stiles curses and digs his heels into the flesh just above Derek's ass. 

“Do you want to... could I...” He trails off into a frustrated groan and Stiles has a pretty good idea of what Derek is attempting to ask. Although it's been weeks since they took the next step and moved beyond kissing, they haven't slept with each other in the biblical sense. Stiles had been waiting, waiting for it to _click_ in his head and he'd been pretty sure that Christmas would have been the appropriate time for it. It might have been a little cheesy, the whole sex as a Christmas present idea but he was a firm believer that sometimes, cheesiness was the right way to go. 

But now definitely seems like a good idea. Now _clicks._

“ _Yes_ ,” he groans, his voice so raw and breathy that he hardly recognizes it. “Please Derek, I want you so bad.” 

“Want you too,” Derek sighs, “for so long, Stiles.” His teeth briefly catch against Stiles' collarbone before he swoops back in for another kiss, his tongue coaxing against Stiles'. His hands come up and his fingers intertwine with Stiles' and even though he's basically pinning him down to the mattress, there's no fear in Stiles' mind. He isn't scared of Derek; he knows the guy isn't going to hurt him, not unless Stiles _wants_ him to (and even then, Stiles thinks he'd have to beg, but those are thoughts for a different time). While Derek kisses him senseless, his hips continue to grind down and Stiles is pretty sure that if they don't switch things up soon, he's going to come his brains out against Derek's flat stomach. 

“Do you have lube in here?” he pants, reluctantly wrenching his head away so that he can breathe. Derek looks thoughtful for a second before he rolls off to the side and starts digging through the nightstand, muttering something under his breath. While he does that, Stiles flips over onto his stomach and kicks the remaining blankets to the edge of the bed and when Derek finally shuts the drawer and turns around, he sucks in a breath and his entire face flushes red. 

“Is this alright?” Stiles asks, biting back a curse when his cock brushes against the sheets. The longer Derek stares at him, the warmer his own body seems to get and just when he's sure he's about to burst into flames, Derek nods and shuffles over, dropping the lube and a condom next to Stiles' head. 

“More than alright,” Derek murmurs. “This is perfect.” His hand brushes over Stiles' ribs and he can't help but jolt away from the touch; he's always been horribly ticklish there. Derek just laughs before he moves his hand away and smooths it down Stiles' back, settling it on the dip at the base of his spine. His mouth presses along the top of Stiles' shoulders, running over skin that is already throbbing with hickies and bite marks and Stiles is so caught up arching into the touch that he doesn't realize Derek has grabbed the lube until there's a slippery finger running along the inside of his thigh, closer and closer to where he wants it to be. 

“Spread your legs a little further?” Derek asks and Stiles complies, pressing his toes into the mattress and tilting his hips up for good measure. It's been a long time since he felt so exposed but before he can really ponder that feeling any further, Derek's teeth are pressing into the back of his neck as one of his fingers slides into his body. Stiles is pretty sure he _convulses_ and he flails out with his arm, trying to grab any part of Derek he can reach. His fingers finally grasp Derek's shoulder and he holds on for dear life, sweat forming on his forehead, panting and cursing into the pillow as Derek slowly, thoroughly works him open. 

By the time he has three fingers crooked inside of him, Stiles feels like he's forgotten his own name. His world has narrowed down to the burning points where Derek is touching him and as he stretches his fingers out, Stiles keens, his hand slipping off of Derek's shoulder, hips desperately pressing back against Derek's fingers. 

“Derek, _please_ ,” he slurs, hardly recognizing his own voice. He grabs the condom from beside his head and tosses it back towards Derek, cursing as Derek meticulously curls his fingers again. “You're fucking killing me, I don't wanna wait anymore.”

“You're exaggerating,” Derek says against Stiles' neck but he doesn't exactly sound cool or collected either; his own words come dangerously close to slurring together. Mercifully, he withdraws his fingers and Stiles rearranges himself so he's up on his knees, supporting himself on his elbows because he doesn't trust his arms to hold out. In his peripheral vision, he sees the condom wrapper go flying to the floor and he hears the slick sounds of Derek rolling it onto himself. Once Derek's palms splay across his hips, Stiles relaxes the best he can, preparing for the feeling of Derek pressing into him. 

But it doesn't come, at least not immediately. Stiles waits a few seconds but his impatience gets the best of him and he looks back the best he can, trying very hard not to whine. 

“Hey, you alright?” he asks because while Derek's lips are parted and his pupils look blown, he also looks like he's thinking very, very hard about something. 

“I'm great,” he answers and when he leans forward, the head of his cock brushes against the back of Stiles' thigh. “I was just realizing that you're gonna be here tomorrow. You're going to be _here_.”

“Well, I might be in _your_ bed tomorrow,” Stiles retorts and the way Derek smiles down at him makes his heart thud even harder against his ribcage. 

“I like how you think,” he says quietly and before Stiles can think of anything to say, Derek pushes into him and knocks the breath out of his lungs.

He takes his sweet time. Even after Stiles has fully adjusted to the size of him, he keeps his thrusts slow, shallow, like he's trying to make each and every one of Stiles' nerves sizzle. It works; by the time he starts to speed up, his fingertips pressing into the flesh of Stiles' sides, Stiles is fairly certain he's died and gone to heaven because there is no possible way that sex could be _this_ good. He feels like his chest is going to split open, like he's going to sob and even though Derek is murmuring _patience_ against his skin, he can't help but press back because he wants more, needs more. 

If this is what his future looks like, he's going to die young. And he's completely okay with that.

His elbows are trembling against the mattress and the sheets are damp underneath him from the sweat forming on his face. Every time his cock brushes against the bed, he jolts and he thinks that he might be able to come without touching himself which is something that's _never_ happened, not even back in college. 

“Derek, oh my god,” he groans, pressing backward against another one of Derek's thrusts, which are finally starting to increase in speed. “Are you, _fuck_ , are you going to do this to me every night?”

“I was kind of hoping you could do it to me once in awhile,” Derek pants against the back of his neck and, not for the first time, Stiles is positive that he's dreaming. There is no way he's this goddamn lucky. 

“How do you even _exist?_ ” he responds, fingers scrabbling at the mattress. As he presses backwards again, Derek slings one arm around his waist and tightens his hand on his hip and after that, his thrusts really start to pick up. His hips roll fluidly, pressing flush against Stiles' ass and his chest is a damp, fever-warm line against Stiles' back. His mouth is pressing against Stiles' neck, nipping and soothing in equal measure and Stiles can't stop his own mouth from moving, from gasping and cursing and begging for more. 

“Harder,” he whimpers, “please Derek, I'm so close, fuck, I love you.” It's only when Derek's body stiffens that Stiles realizes what he's said but it's too late to backtrack and besides, now that the words are finally out in the open, he doesn't really want to. After a few excruciating seconds, Derek's arm slips away from his waist and he uses his now-free hand to gently grasp Stiles' jaw and turn it until it's nearly touching his shoulder. It's not the most comfortable position in the world but Stiles thinks he can deal with it for as long as Derek needs him to. 

“You mean that,” he says and this time, there's zero hesitation in his voice; he _believes_ and if Stiles wasn't about four thrusts away from coming, he thinks that he would actually cheer. 

“Yeah, I do,” he says quietly, leaning into what is one of the best kisses of his life (awkward positioning be damned) and as Derek starts moving again, Stiles catches all sorts of Derek's words against his mouth. They're all lovely, each and every last one of them, but by far the most important ones are _you too Stiles, I love you too._ The words are accompanied by Derek's large, sweat-slick hand wrapping around Stiles' cock and it's only seconds later that he comes, teeth biting down on the corner of Derek's lip. 

There are fireworks behind his eyelids and blood in his mouth and he's vaguely aware that the dogs are barking but for the moment, he doesn't concern himself with that. Nor does he worry about the fact that the damp patch under his stomach is quickly growing sticky because Derek's hands are tight against his waist and his mouth is warm against Stiles' ear. His hips stutter once, twice before his muscles seize and he lets out one final noise, higher than anything Stiles has ever heard him make. Thankfully, he manages to pull out and collapse beside Stiles, rather than on top of him. Stiles follows his lead, dropping onto his stomach, every muscle in his body trembling, feeling empty but completely fucked out. After a few long moments, Derek gets off the bed and leaves the room and by the time he gets back, Stiles is actually on the verge of falling asleep. 

“Stiles, get up.” Although Stiles grunts as acknowledgment, that apparently isn't enough of an answer, since Derek drops what feels a lot like a towel on his head. 

“Have a shower with me, and then we can eat.” It takes a few seconds for Stiles' brain to remember what Derek is talking about but then he remembers Thanksgiving dinner and he grins into the pillow, flailing his arm outwards until it smacks into what feels like Derek's thigh.

“I love you,” he sighs happily when he slowly sits up. “Really, I do.”

“I know,” Derek replies and before Stiles can complain about how he totally just got Han Solo'ed, Derek pulls him off of the bed and says _I love you_ against his still swollen lips. 

It's over an hour later when they finally get around to eating.

&.

The McCall-Stilinski dinner is just as interesting as his dinner with Derek, but for an entirely different set of reasons. 

The food is absolutely mouthwatering, which isn't a surprise; Scott's mom is probably the best cook Stiles has ever met. Scott and Allison bring their entire brood of dogs (Bane is at Derek's) and Stiles' dad shows up late, still in his sheriff's uniform. All things considered, it's exactly like all their other Thanksgiving dinners, right down to the awkward flirting between his dad and Scott's mom. 

Well. It's _almost_ exactly like their other dinners, up to the point where the others are spooning second handfuls of stuffing onto their plate (and Scott is trying to surreptitiously drop some on the floor for his dogs). 

“Derek asked me to move in with him last night,” Stiles blurts and just like that, the entire room goes silent, aside from the slurping as one of Scott's dogs licks leftovers off of the tiles. He can feel everyone's eyes on him and he can feel warmth creeping up the back of his neck as he shoves another forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth, hoping to God that someone will say something, _anything_ before the silence suffocates him. 

“And? What did you say?” Allison finally asks and Stiles has known her long enough to tell that she's just barely holding back a smile. Scott on the other hand doesn't seem to be trying at all; there's a grin slowly but surely spreading across his face and when Stiles mutters _I said yeah, of course_ , the grin bursts into full force and from that point on, the rest of the evening is kind of a blur. Scott hugs him multiple times, hard enough for his ribs to ache and when Stiles catches Allison's eye again, she smiles at him and mouths _congratulations._

“Why is this the first time I'm hearing about this?” his dad asks once he can get a word in edgewise (which only happens after Scott starts loudly consulting with Allison about what kind of housewarming present they need to buy).

“He just asked last night,” Stiles says, feeling his face turn red again as he remembers the other factors that had made his evening with Derek especially memorable. His dad spoons another mouthful of Melissa's amazing stuffing into his mouth before he abruptly pushes his chair back and pulls Stiles into a hug that makes his already sore ribs twinge again. 

“He better be good to you,” his dad mutters, “or I will have him arrested. Got it?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, trying to ignore the tightness in his throat and the dampness in his eyes. “Yeah Dad, I got it.”

&.

He starts moving in the next day. Thankfully, the house is a rental, owned by someone his dad knows so as soon as he gets back from the school, he phones in his two months notice. 

The house is empty in a week.

&. 

“We should go on a date.” 

Stiles is sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by stacks of DVDs, trying to figure out how to amalgamate his collection with Derek's, when Derek speaks up from his computer. He'd been working on some project but based on how he's spun his chair around so he's facing Stiles with his hands clasped between his knees, he's done working for the night. 

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, leaving the movies for the time being. He carefully steps over both Bane and Chica (Gomez is snoring on the couch, per usual) before he drops himself into Derek's lap, one leg on either side of him, really hoping that the chair isn't going to break underneath them. “Where do you wanna go?”

“I don't know,” Derek shrugs, his hands effortlessly sliding into the back pockets of Stiles' jeans and Stiles bites back a rather undignified noise. “It's just... do you think it's weird, that we haven't gone on one yet?” Stiles hums, drops his chin onto Derek's head and runs his fingers through Derek's hair, which is still slightly damp from the shower he took after his afternoon run. 

Derek's question does have some merit. After all, it's been months since they started circling around each other, since he started counting Derek as more than his neighbor, since he first slipped to his dad that he “might have a bit of a thing for the guy next door” and yet, Derek still hasn't met his dad, or Scott and Allison for that matter. While Stiles' clothes now occupy half of Derek's massive walk-in closet and his DVD collection is spread out on the floor, they've never even ventured out into public together.

“Maybe it's a bit weird,” Stiles muses. “But it doesn't bother me.” Derek presses a kiss against his throat, which is enough to make Stiles lose his train of thought for a few moments. 

“Do you really want to go? On a date, I mean?” he asks once he manages to think about something other than the feeling of Derek's mouth on his neck. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, his hands flexing in Stiles' back pockets. “I do. And I think we should have dinner with your dad sometime.” 

“One thing at a time, Derek. We should do a date first. Movie and a dinner? I'm sure there's something good playing.” Stiles twists his body slightly, just enough so that he can reach the mouse for Derek's computer but before he can even bring a web browser up, Derek bites down gently on his collarbone and Stiles halts all movement. 

“Tomorrow,” Derek mutters, his breath warm against Stiles' neck, his hands sliding underneath the back of his shirt. “I have other plans for us tonight, if you're interested.” 

Needless to say, by the time Derek finishes kissing his way from Stiles' shoulder to his mouth, Stiles is _very_ interested.

&. 

While he's on his lunch break at school the next day, Stiles looks up showtimes on his phone. The selection of movies in the theaters actually isn't as good as he expected, so he settles on an action thriller that _might_ be okay, if he shuts his brain off during it. When Scott texts him later that day between seventh and eighth period, Stiles thinks nothing of telling him about his plans for the night, nor does he think it weird when Scott asks him what screening they're going to. 

It's only after the fact that he realizes that he _probably_ should have expected what happens. 

As it turns out, the movie is decent enough, with a twist near the end that actually surprises him. To make things even better, the theater is nearly empty, aside from a few other couples scattered near the middle and before the opening credits finish scrolling, Stiles yawns loudly, stretches his arms above his head and drapes one across Derek's broad shoulders. It's a move he's always wanted to pull and while Derek doesn't say anything, the quirk of his lips and his raised eyebrow practically scream _really?_

Based on the way his hand drops onto Stiles' thigh and stays planted there for the entire film, Stiles doesn't think he actually minds. 

So it's a good date, a _really_ good date and truthfully, strange as it may be, Stiles is glad that they waited until after they moved in with each other to actually go on one. There's no awkwardness, no “should I make a grab for your hand?” situations and no need to make small talk. It's totally comfortable and totally smooth and Stiles is just so damn happy that even though he (usually) isn't big on public affection, when they step out of the dark theater into the bright lobby, he can't help but press a kiss to Derek's cheek. Derek stops in his tracks and looks at him, his mouth slightly parted, eyes fixated on Stiles' face and no matter how many times Stiles has been the subject of that look, it never fails to make him shiver from head to toe. 

“Can we skip dinner?” Derek asks and Stiles sucks in a breath, his fingers finding Derek's as he nods rapidly. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, definitely, screw dinner.” The lobby is fairly empty of people; apparently their movie is the only one to let out in the last few moments. It's a straight shot to the theater's exit and Stiles might be walking a little too fast but he can't help it. He has no idea how he's still like this, how one word or look from Derek is enough to make him want to sink to his knees, but he isn't going to question it. He just wants to get home, so he can make his wants a reality. 

And that's when he hears his name. 

“Stiles!” At first, he ignores it; after all, it's totally possible that he's mishearing the word, that it isn't really his name. But then Derek stops, tugging on his hand slightly and when Stiles looks, he can't help but groan. 

That _bastard_. He totally planned this. 

Scott and Allison are sitting at one of the low tables dotting the lobby, both of them smiling in a way Stiles recognizes all too well. It's their conspiratorial smile, their _there's nothing you can do about this_ smile and the worst part is, they're completely right. 

“Hey buddy,” he says, weakly waving as he reluctantly heads over to their table, still holding Derek's hand. “Didn't expect to see you here!”

“I know, right? What a coincidence,” Scott says and Stiles rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. Scott leaps to his feet once they get closer and he sticks his hand out for Derek to shake. “You must be Derek. I'm Scott, this is my wife, Allison. We've known Stiles since we were small enough to think eating sand was cool.”

“Well, _you've_ known him that long,” Allison amends, standing up as well, her conspiratorial smile shifting to something far less devious. “But I've been around long enough to have some interesting stories about Stiles too.” 

“Is that so?” Derek asks, one eyebrow arched and damn him, the man actually sounds _amused._ “I'd love to hear some of them.”

“No you wouldn't,” Stiles says quickly as his mind rapidly attempts to catalog all the possible blackmail material Allison and Scott both have on him. “They're boring, I mean. Really, I promise, we weren't very exciting in high school.” 

“Speaking of boring, this popcorn needs more butter,” Scott says, picking up a half-empty bag of popcorn from the table behind him. “Derek, did you wanna come along?” Frankly, Scott is kind of a terrible actor (he always has been) and Stiles can feel himself getting more and more embarrassed with each moment because they've been friends long enough for him to know exactly what Scott is about to do. 

“Sure,” Derek says, squeezing Stiles' hand one more time before obligingly following Scott across the lobby to the condiments station. Stiles manages to keep his eyes on them for all of ten seconds before Allison sits back down and pulls him into a seat as well, rummaging through the small purse hanging from her shoulder. 

“He's giving him the 'brothers' speech, isn't he?” he groans, peeking over Allison's shoulder as Scott makes some grandiose, unidentifiable gesture with his hands. “Oh God, he is. He said he wasn't going to do this anymore.”

“He does it because he loves you,” Allison says, pulling a small tube of liquid out of her bag. “Besides, it's not like he's going to threaten Derek. He grew out of that, remember?” 

“This is so embarrassing. I'm 24, for God's sake.”

“And yet you still don't know how to cover up hickies.” Squeezing a dollop of the liquid onto her fingers, Allison reaches across the table and smears it onto his neck, swirling it into his skin. “Please say you keep these hidden from the kids.” 

“No, I just let them stare,” he mutters, rolling his eyes but obediently turning his head so that Allison can apply more concealer. Over at the condiments station, Scott is beaming again and patting Derek's shoulder and even though Derek's arms are crossed over his chest and his eyebrows are furrowed together, his shoulders seem to be shaking, like he's trying desperately not to laugh.

“Much better,” Allison says, capping the concealer and dropping it back into her purse. “Now you won't scar the children, or anyone else.” Stiles uses the screen of his phone as a mirror and although the reflection is kind of distorted, it's enough for him to see that Allison has worked wonders on his neck (which _was_ kind of bruised up, thanks to Derek's inquisitive teeth and mouth). 

“Holy crap, that's amazing. Do you have any more of that stuff?” 

“I'll make sure you get some in your stocking,” she says, just as Scott and Derek arrive back at the table. After a few more moments of small talk, Scott yanks Stiles into a tight hug, which manages to knock the wind out of him. Maybe one day the dude will know his own strength but somehow, Stiles doesn't think so. 

“I like him,” Scott says under his breath.

“So you aren't going to set your pack on him?”

“Not unless he hurts you. But I think he's a keeper.”

Even though Stiles is sure that he's still red with embarrassment, hearing that from Scott means more than he'll ever admit.

They make it out to the parking lot before Derek finally starts laughing. It starts out quiet, like he's trying to swallow it down but by the time they reach his car, there's no holding back. Stiles doesn't think he's ever heard him laugh so hard and with each moment that goes by, he finds it harder and harder to hold back laughter of his own. 

“Scott is _very_ intimidating. Especially when he smiles,” Derek says once his laughter has started to trail off and that's all it takes to completely set Stiles off. By the time he manages to curb his laughter, his skin feels like it's burning hot. Derek just stands beside him, leaning against the car, corner of his mouth twitched up into something that rides the line between a smirk and a smile. 

“He tries,” Stiles says, wiping away the stray tears coursing down his cheeks. “He really tries. But I'm sorry for whatever he said to you. He's just a bit protective.” 

“I've heard worse.” Derek moves so that he's in front of Stiles and curves his hands over his waist and while Stiles still feels warm, not all of it is from embarrassment or laughter. 

“He _did_ attempt to make some analogy, something about you two being blood brothers,” Derek says and Stiles groans and drops his head against Derek's chest, blush flaring up again. 

This is _all_ Scott's fault.

&. 

When Stiles comes home the day that Christmas break begins, he makes it all of two steps into the house before he's pulled into a tight hug. This action itself is far from unusual; he just isn't used to being hugged by this particular member of the Hale family. 

“Hey Laura,” he wheezes, wondering if she's actually unaware of how hard she's hugging him or if she's deliberately trying to crack his ribs as some kind of test. “How was the drive up?”

“Same shit, different day. People in this state really can't drive.” She pulls away and gives him an appraising look, raising an eyebrow after looking at his face for a few moments. “Have you been sleeping? You look like hell.”

“I'm just a bit nervous, I guess,” he mutters, sliding his schoolbag off his shoulder. _A bit_ might be the understatement of the century. He's actually been a mess of thrumming nerves for the past few week, when it actually hit him that he was going to be meeting the rest of Derek's family; his mother and father, his other siblings, his aunts and uncles. Although Derek has told him over and over again that there's nothing to worry about, his words have done nothing to sooth Stiles' overactive imagination, running amok with situations where Derek's family ends up hating him for some reason or another.

“What are you nervous about? Meeting everyone else?” Laura rolls her eyes and grabs the sleeve of his shirt, pulling him towards the living room. “Seriously, Stiles, you're getting way too worked up about this. _I_ like you, and I'm a lot more judgmental than the rest of our family. Except for maybe Cora, but I wouldn't worry about her. She doesn't even like us most of the time.” Laura shoves him onto the couch and takes a seat on the recliner, which is usually Bane's domain. Stiles hears a door open above his head, followed by Derek's surprisingly soft footsteps on the stairs. He's freshly showered, dressed in loose jeans and a v-neck and when he sits down beside Stiles on the couch, it's all he can do to resist climbing into his lap and licking the stray water droplets off his neck. 

“Took you long enough,” Laura says, too busy rummaging in the open suitcase beside the chair to see the trademark Hale eye-roll Derek shoots in her direction. “Now where the hell did I put them?” 

“Was your day okay?” Derek asks while Laura continues to mutter to herself, throwing articles of clothing across the room. His arm is a comforting weight around Stiles' shoulders and Stiles shifts on the couch, scooting closer until he's pressed against Derek's side. 

“It was fine,” Stiles shrugs, absently patting the couch beside him as Gomez trots by. The pug immediately takes up the invitation and starts licking at Stiles' hand as soon as all four of his paws have hit the cushions. “But it's nice to be home."

“Found them!” Laura yells triumphantly, tossing aside another sweater and pulling out what appear to be two small picture frames. “These aren't your Christmas presents, I've got those hidden so you can't find them. But I wanted to give you two lovebirds something for the house.” 

“You already got us a housewarming present,” Derek points out. Two weeks after Stiles had finished moving all his stuff into the house, Laura had shown up with tales of her recent adventures and a brand new, huge barbeque in the back of her SUV. Stiles had spent a good five minutes simply gaping while Laura set it up on their deck, chattering away and deliberately ignoring Derek every time he asked her what she'd spent or if she still had the receipt. 

“Well, I like you two so much that I wanted to give you something else,” she replies in a tone far less sarcastic than usual. She hands the picture frames to Stiles and when he flips them face up, he feels his heart skip a little bit. 

Stiles isn't quite sure when Laura took the first photo but she must have been standing on the other side of the living room. In it, him and Derek are asleep on the couch; Stiles' cheek is pressed against Derek's chest and one of Derek's arms is looped around his waist, hand splayed on his hip. Gomez is tucked between their intertwined legs and Bane and Chica are just visible at the bottom of the photo, curled up on their massive dog beds. 

The second photo, on the other hand... Stiles knows _exactly_ when Laura took it. 

“This is from the first night I met you,” he says, looking up at Laura, who has a small smile on her face that Stiles has never seen before. “Right?” 

“Yup. I actually took a few throughout the night, but this one turned out the best.” Stiles looks back down at the picture while Derek examines the first one. The angle and lighting aren't the greatest but that isn't what matters; the subject of the picture is what makes a lump form in Stiles' throat. 

He's sitting beside Derek on the deck, pressed together from shoulder to knee and Derek's head is inclined towards him. Stiles immediately remembers what Derek was saying at that exact moment-

_(Do you want me to walk you home?)_

and he remembers how he was staring at Derek's hands, staring and wondering how they would feel on his skin. Even as he recalls the memory, Derek's hands come into his vision as his fingertips trace along the carved edge of the picture frame. 

“Honestly, I was going to keep them as blackmail, whip them out when I wanted to make Derek's face turn red but I've got other pictures for that. I thought you both might like them instead.” 

Before Stiles can think of a response, Derek is on his feet and, automatically stepping around Bane and Chica, he pulls Laura out of her chair and into a hug. Stiles can see her face over his shoulder and after only a few seconds, her look of surprise fades into happiness and she returns the hug.

“Thank you,” Stiles silently mouths at her, not sure if he could actually push the words past his lips without choking.

“You're welcome,” she mouths back, only to say the words out loud when Derek pulls back and says thank you as well. “I'm glad you like them.” 

“They're the best presents you've ever given me,” Derek says quietly and although Laura snorts and makes a remark about something she bought Derek in the eighth grade, Stiles still catches the glimmer of a tear at the corner of her eye. 

After they've eaten dinner, Derek briefly goes upstairs and later that evening, when Stiles climbs into bed (which is just as comfy as it was the first time he slept in it), he sees that the pictures have made their way into the bedroom, one of top of Derek's dresser, the other on top of Stiles'. For a few moments, Stiles toys with the idea of getting up and looking at them again, at recalling the memories captured within them but then Derek closes the bedroom door and after only a few moments, he's too caught up in making new memories to think about old ones. 

He returns to those thoughts later though, when he's lying on his stomach, his back covered in sweat and throat raspy from bitten back moans. While he's trying to get his breath back, his eyes land on the outline of the picture on top of his dresser, of the first night Derek had walked him home.

“Can I ask you something?” Derek hums in acknowledgment. He's lying on his back, unabashedly naked and completely uncovered by any blankets. Stiles can see his chest rising and glistening with sweat and it's such a gorgeous sight that Stiles thinks he might just have to go for round two in a few minutes. 

“When did you know?” he asks. “I mean, when did you kinda start thinking that _we_ could be something?” He knows that it isn't the most coherent way of asking the question but he's still coming down from an orgasm; the fact he's speaking at all is actually a marvel in itself. For a long, long time, Derek stays quiet but his hand smooths up and down Stiles' back, a reminder that he hasn't forgotten the question.

“The day you brought Chica back,” he finally says, his hand pausing on the small of Stiles' back. “She'd never run away before. The fact she ran to your house... I know it doesn't make any sense. But it was that day that I thought... maybe. I _hoped,_ at least.” He slides across the bed and presses a kiss underneath Stiles' ear. “You?” 

“Derek, I started hoping we could be a thing the first moment I saw you,” he says quietly. “But it was just kind of a 'holy crap, that guy is super hot and I'd totally kiss him' thing. I didn't think it was ever going to be anything more than that.” 

“Well, you weren't wrong.” Stiles rolls onto his side so that he can actually see Derek, whose lips are still swollen and who has a set of scratch marks running down the length of his bicep. He's also obviously trying very hard to hold back a smile.

“Huh?” Derek brushes his nose against Stiles and it's such a simple touch but it's enough to make Stiles wonder just what good deed he did in a past life for the universe to put him in Derek's life.

“You do totally kiss me. And _apparently_ I'm super hot, if what you said ten minutes ago is true.” 

“Oh, it was true,” Stiles grins. “Wanna hear it again?” 

“Only if I can say it back.” 

The next morning, when Stiles stumbles out of bed with a severe need for coffee, there's a note stuck to their bedroom door with tape. 

_if you two are gonna hump like bunnies, can you be quiet about it? There are some things a sister really doesn't need to know about her brother._

He has a hard time facing Laura that day (and the rest of the week, actually) without turning red.

&. 

There's a pack of wolves in their backyard. 

Or at least that's what it sounds like. Between Scott's six dogs and the three that belong to Stiles and Derek, the backyard is a cacophony of barks and playful yips. The only one who is staying out of the fun is Tres; although he's gained at least five pounds and learned to walk fairly effectively since the first time Stiles saw him, he's still way smaller than the other dogs, even Gomez. As a result, he's curled up in Scott's lap, fast asleep while Scott pets him with the hand that isn't holding a beer. 

“I can't believe how warm it is outside,” Scott says and Stiles just gapes at him for a few moments. Sure, he's dealt with colder February temperatures and sure, it's _technically_ warm enough for them to be sitting outside on the back steps, but even with one of Derek's thick sweaters pulled over a plaid shirt, he's still trying not to shiver. 

“You're ridiculous. Are you sure you don't have a fever?” Stiles responds, reaching over and laying the back of his hand against Scott's forehead (which _is_ absurdly warm, but that's par for the course). The back door of the house is open and drifting out of it is both the positively amazing smell of lunch and rushed snippets of French. Stiles has no idea what Derek and Allison are talking about but he's just glad that Derek has someone he can speak it with; Stiles knows maybe a dozen words total and he's picked up most of those from Derek gasping them against his mouth and the back of his neck. 

He quickly shakes his head to get those thoughts out of his head, just as Bane trots up the steps, tongue hanging out of his mouth, apparently tired out. He sits on the step below Stiles and Tres wakes up long enough to give an inquiring sniff and a quiet bark in Bane's general direction. 

“He's a pretty good dog,” Scott says, the words obviously a statement, not a question. Stiles nods and absently scratches behind Bane's ear. 

“Yeah, he's great. Never had a problem with him. Except for that first time he ran away but seeing as he just led me here...” He trails off, scratches Bane's head again. A burst of laughter suddenly comes tumbling out the door and in response, Stiles can't help but smile. Derek's laughter always surprises him a little bit, but he appreciates every last second of it. 

“Y'know, this is all because of you,” he says, only half-jokingly. 

“What is?” 

“This. Me and Derek. If you'd decided to keep Bane, I never would have had a reason to come back here. I probably never would have met him.” That thought makes Stiles' head swim a little bit. He remembers perfectly well how his life had been before Derek had come into the picture. Sure, things hadn't been bad; he'd had a full time job doing something he (usually) loved, a place of his own, occasional flings that had tided him over. It certainly hadn't been a horrible existence but the thought of returning to that is incomprehensible to him now. 

“So yeah, thanks man,” he finishes, feeling supremely lame for even bringing the topic up. It sounded much more cool (and way less sappy) in his head. Scott stays silent for a few long moments, idly scratching Tres' head, eyes focused on the dogs still playing on the grass. Stiles has been friends with Scott long enough to recognize when he's really pondering something so he stays quiet as well, trying to decipher the snippets of conversation drifting out from the kitchen. 

“I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit,” Scott finally says. “I mean, honestly, we didn't really expect you to keep him.”

“Me neither,” Stiles admits. “But I don't know, he was different. It just... it seemed right, y'know?”

“Dude, I've got six of them, of course I know. I mean, dogs are awesome but some of them are _more_ awesome. Some of them are just yours from the instant you see them. Speaking of which...” Scott sits his beer down on the step and, without jostling Tres at all, withdraws his cell phone from his pocket. 

“We got a new one at the clinic the other day,” he says, thumbing at his screen before passing it over to Stiles. “Someone just dropped her off, no note, no collar or name. She's a mongrel but she's so friendly. Healthy too, already spayed, everything. I can't figure out why anyone would willingly give her up.” 

“Maybe they didn't have a choice,” Stiles says. The dog _looks_ friendly, based solely on the picture Scott has on his phone. It looks like she's only a little bigger with Gomez, with floppy ears and big brown eyes and shaggy fur that is a patchwork of tan and black and white. She actually kind of reminds Stiles of a teddy bear. 

“Have your other dogs met her yet?” he asks and nothing less than sheer confusion briefly flashes over Scott's face. 

“Huh? Oh, no!” he exclaims, which only makes Stiles confused as well. “I was actually thinking that you and Derek might like her.” For a few moments, Stiles can't begin to think of how to respond. If Scott says the dog is healthy and friendly, Stiles believes him. But...

But _what?_ When he thinks about, he can't really come up with any reasons to say no. Derek's dogs have adjusted well to Bane living with them; the last time Laura had come by, she'd told Stiles that sometimes she forgot that less than a year ago, Derek had only had Gomez and Chica. The three of them weren't lacking for attention and they weren't hard to look after; truthfully, Stiles couldn't really figure out why he hadn't gotten a dog sooner, other than the fact that the idea had never really occurred to him. 

How much harder could it be to welcome another one? If Scott and Allison could do it with six, Stiles thinks that him and Derek could definitely manage with four. Before he can answer, Derek steps out onto the deck, barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, apparently impervious to the cold as well. 

“Food's done,” he says, extending a hand out and pulling Stiles up. “Want to round up the dogs?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Not for the first time, Stiles finds himself swallowing around a lump in his throat. It's been months since he first touched Derek, when he affirmed that he was real and not going anywhere, but the fact still hasn't really set in. Truthfully, he doesn't know if it ever will. He thinks (and hopes) that, for the rest of his life, he is going to be continually surprised (and thankful) that someone so wonderful is in his life, and all it took to find him was for his dog to run away. 

“Love you,” he says quietly, smoothing his hands down Derek's chest and pressing a lingering kiss against his warm mouth. When he pulls away and sees Derek's smile, he wants to lean in and do it all over again. 

“Love you too,” Derek murmurs and for a brief moment, his palm comes to rest on Stiles' cheek, thumb smoothing over his skin. It's gone quick and Derek heads back indoors, calling something to Allison in French, but Stiles can feel the warmth from the touch linger for what feels like an eternity, seeping underneath his skin and going straight for his heart.

It's a warmth that never fails to make him feel like he's safe and secure and _home_ and in that moment, he makes a decision. 

“Hey, Scott?” he asks, turning back towards where his best friend is just standing up, carefully balancing Tres in his arms. 

“Yeah?” Stiles takes a quick glance out into the yard and whistles. Chica and Gomez come trotting up the steps and join Bane as they weave around his ankles, panting and stepping on his toes and getting slobber on the hem of his jeans. Soon there'll be another one to drool on him as well, another one who might sleep on his back or steal his socks or go running with Derek through the woods. 

And after that, Stiles thinks their makeshift family might be complete. 

“I think we can give her a home.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
